IN DOWNTOWN MANHATTAN, in courtroom thirty-seven of the Supreme Court Criminal Term building at 180 Centre Street, the trial of Anthony (Tony) Altieri was in session. The large, venerable courtroom was filled to capacity with press and spectators.
 
At the defendant's table sat Anthony Altieri, slouched in a wheelchair, looking like a pale, fat frog folding in on itself. Only his eyes were alive, and every time he looked at Diane Stevens in the witness chair, she could literally feel the pulse of his hatred.
 
Next to Altieri sat Jake Rubenstein, Altieri's defense attorney. Rubenstein was famous for two things: his high-profile clientele, consisting mostly of mobsters, and the fact that nearly all of his clients were acquitted.
 
Rubenstein was a small, dapper man with a quick mind and a vivid imagination. He was never the same in his courtroom appearances. Courtroom histrionics were his stock-in-trade, and he was highly skilled. He was brilliant at sizing up his opponents, with a feral instinct for finding their weaknesses. Sometimes Rubenstein imagined he was a lion, slowly closing in on his unsuspecting prey, ready to pounce ... or a cunning spider, spinning a web that would eventually entrap them and leave them helpless. . . Sometimes he was a patient fisherman, gently tossing a line into the water and slowly moving it back and forth until the gullible witness took the bait.
 
The lawyer was carefully studying the witness on the stand. Diane Stevens was in her early thirties. An aura of elegance. Patrician features. Soft, flowing blonde hair. Green eyes. Lovely figure. A girl-next-door kind of wholesomeness. She was dressed in a chic, tailored black suit. Jake Rubenstein knew that the day before she had made a favorable impression on the jury. He had to be careful how he handled her. Fisherman, he decided.
 
Rubenstein took his time approaching the witness box, and when he spoke, his voice was gentle. "Mrs. Stevens, yesterday you testified that on the date in question, October fourteenth, you were driving south on the Henry Hudson Parkway when you got a flat tire and pulled off the highway at the One Hundred and Fifty-eighth Street exit, onto a service road into Fort Washington Park?"
 
"Yes." Her voice was soft and cultured.
 
"What made you stop at that particular place?"
 
"Because of the flat tire, I knew I had to get off the main road and I could see the roof of a cabin through the trees. I thought there might be someone there who could help me. I didn't have a spare."
 
 "Do you belong to an auto club?" Yes.
 
 "And do you have a phone in your car?" Yes.
"Then why didn't you call the auto club?"
 
 "I thought that might have taken too long."
 
 Rubenstein said sympathetically, "Of course. And the cabin was right there."
 
 "Yes."
 
 "So, you approached the cabin to get help?"
 
 "That's right."
 
 "Was it still light outside?"
 
 "Yes. It was about five o'clock in the afternoon."
 
 "And so, you could see clearly?"
 
 "I could."
 
 "What did you see, Mrs. Stevens?"
 
 "I saw Anthony Altieri—"
 
 "Oh. You had met him before?"
 
 "No."
 
 "What made you sure it was Anthony Altieri?"
 
 "I had seen his picture in the newspaper and—"
 
 "So, you had seen pictures that resembled the defendant?"
 
 "Well, it—"
 
 "What did you see in that cabin?"
 
 Diane Stevens took a shuddering breath. She spoke slowly, visualizing the scene in her mind. "There were four men in the room. One a of them was in a chair, tied up. Mr. Altieri seemed to be questioning him while the two other men stood next to him." Her voice shook.

"Mr. Altieri pulled out a gun, yelled something, and—and shot the man in the back of the head."
 
Jake Rubenstein cast a sidelong glance at the jury. They were absorbed in her testimony.
"What did you do then, Mrs. Stevens?"
 
"I ran back to my car and dialed 911 on my cell phone."
 
"And then?"
 
"I drove away."
 
"With a flat tire?"
 
"Yes.
 
Time for a little ripple in the water. "Why didn't you wait for the police?"
 
 Diane glanced toward the defense table. Altieri was watching her with naked malevolence.
 
She looked away. "I couldn't stay there because I—I was afraid that the men might come out of the
cabin and see me."
 
 "That's very understandable." Rubenstein's voice hardened.


"What is not understandable is that when the police responded to your 911 call, they went into the cabin, and not only was no one there, Mrs. Stevens, but they could find no sign that anyone had been there, let alone been murdered there."
 
 "I can't help that. I—"
 
 "You're an artist, aren't you?"
 
 She was taken aback by the question. "Yes, I—"
 
 "Are you successful?"
 
"I suppose so, but what does—?"
It was time to yank the hook.
 
"A little extra publicity never hurts, does it? The whole country watches you on the nightly news
report on television, and on the front pages of—"
 
Diane looked at him, furious. "I didn't do this for publicity. I would never send an innocent man to—"
 
 "The key word is innocent, Mrs. Stevens. And I will prove to you and the ladies and gentlemen of
the jury that Mr. Altieri is innocent. Thank you. You're finished."
 
 Diane Stevens ignored the double entendre. When she stepped down to return to her seat, she was seething. She whispered to the prosecuting attorney, "Am I free to go?"
 
 "Yes. I'll send someone with you."
 
 "That won't be necessary. Thank you."
 
She headed for the door and walked out to the parking garage, the words of the defense attorney
ringing in her ears.
 
You're an artist, aren't you?. . . A little extra publicity never hurts, does it? It was degrading. Still, all in all, she was satisfied with the way her testimony had gone. She had told the jury exactly what she had seen, and they had no reason to doubt her. Anthony Altieri was going to be convicted and sent to prison for the rest of his life. Yet Diane could not help thinking of the venomous looks he had given her, and she felt a little shiver.
 
She handed the parking attendant her ticket and he went to get her car.
 
Two minutes later, Diane was driving onto the street, heading north, on her way home.

 

THERE WAS A stop sign at the corner. As Diane braked to a halt, a well-dressed young man standing
at the curb approached the car. "Excuse me. I'm lost. Could you—?"
 
Diane lowered her window.
 
 "Could you tell me how to get to the Holland Tunnel?" He spoke with an Italian accent.
 
 "Yes. It's very simple. Go down to the first—"
 
 The man raised his arm, and there was a gun with a silencer in his hand. "Out of the car, lady. Fast!"
 
 Diane turned pale. "All right. Please don't—" As she started to open the door, the man stepped back,
and Diane slammed her foot down on the accelerator and the car sped away. She heard the rear window smash as a bullet went through it, and then a crack as another bullet hit the back of the car. Her heart was pounding so hard that it was difficult to breathe.
 
Diane Stevens had read about carjackings, but they had always been remote, something that happened
to other people. And the man had tried to kill her. Did carjackers do that? Diane reached for her cell phone and dialed 911. It took almost two minutes before an operator answered.
 
 "Nine one one. What is your emergency?"
 
 Even as Diane was explaining what had happened, she knew it was hopeless. The man would be long gone by now.
 
 "I'll send an officer to the location. May I have your name, address, and phone number?"
 
 Diane gave them to her. Useless, she thought. She glanced back at the shattered window an shuddered. She desperately wanted to call Richard at work and tell him what had happened, but she knew he was working on an urgent project. If she called him and told him what had just occurred, he
would get upset and rush to her side—and she did not want him to miss his deadline. She would tell him what happened when he got back to the apartment.
 
 
Suddenly a chilling thought occurred to her. Had the man been waiting for her, or was this just a coincidence? She remembered the conversation she had had with Richard when the trial began: I don't think you should testify, Diane. It could be dangerous.
 
 Don't worry, darling. Altieri will be convicted. They'll lock him away forever.
 
But he has friends and— Richard, if I didn't do this, I couldn't live with myself. What just happened had to be a coincidence, Diane decided. Altieri wouldn 't be crazy enough to do anything to me, especially now, during his trial.
 
Diane turned off the highway and drove west until she reached her apartment building on East Seventy-fifth Street. Before she pulled into the underground garage, she took a last careful look in the rearview mirror. Everything seemed normal.
 



THE APARTMENT WAS an airy, ground-floor duplex, with a spacious living room, floor-to-ceiling windows, and a large, marble fireplace. There were upholstered floral sofas, armchairs, a built-in bookcase, and a large television screen. The walls were rainbowed with colorful paintings. There was a Childe Hassam, a Jules Pascin, a Thomas Birch, a George Hitchcock, and, in one area, a group of Diane's paintings.
 
On the next floor were a master bedroom and bathroom, a second guest bedroom, and a sunny atelier, where Diane painted. Several of her paintings were hanging on the walls. On an easel in the center of
the room was a half-finished portrait.
 
The first thing Diane did when she arrived home was to hurry into the atelier. She removed the half-finished portrait on the easel and replaced it with a blank canvas. She began to sketch the face
of the man who had tried to kill her, but her hands were trembling so hard that she had to stop.
 

 
DRIVING TO DIANE STEVEN'S apartment, Detective Earl Greenburg complained, "This is the part of the job I hate most."
 
Robert Praegitzer said, "It's better that we tell them than have them hear about it on the evening news." He looked at Greenburg. "You going to tell her?"
 
Earl Greenburg nodded unhappily. He found himself remembering the story of the detective who had gone to inform a Mrs. Adams, the wife of a patrolman, that her husband had been killed.
 
 She's very sensitive, the chief had cautioned the detective. You'll have to break the news carefully.
 
 Don't worry. I can handle it.
 
 The detective had knocked on the door of the Adams home, and when it was opened by Adams's
wife, the" detective had asked, Are you the widow Adams?

 
 
DIANE WAS STARTLED by the sound of the doorbell. She went to the intercom. "Who is it?"
 
"Detective Earl Greenburg. I'd like to speak to you, Mrs. Stevens."
 
It's about the carjacking, Diane thought. The police got here fast.
 
 She pressed the buzzer and Greenburg entered the hallway and walked to her door.
 
 "Hello."
 
 "Mrs. Stevens?"
 
 "Yes. Thank you for coming so quickly. I started to draw a sketch of the man, but I ..." She took a deep breath. "He was swarthy, with deep-set light brown eyes and a little mole on his cheek. His gun had a silencer on it, and—"
 
 Greenburg was looking at her in confusion. "I'm sorry. I don't understand what—"
 
 "The carjacker. I called 911 and—" She saw the expression on the detective's face. "This isn't about the carjacking, is it?"
 
 "No, ma'am, it's not." Greenburg paused a moment. "May I come in?
 
 "Please."
 
 Greenburg walked into the apartment.
 
 She was looking at him, frowning. "What is it? Is something wrong?"
 
 The words would not seem to come. "Yes. I'm sorry. I—I'm afraid I have some bad news. It's about your husband."
"What's happened?" Her voice was shaky.
 
"He's had an accident."


Diane felt a sudden chill. "What kind of accident?" Greenburg took a deep breath. "He was killed last night, Mrs. Stevens. We found his body under a bridge along the East River this morning."
 
 Diane stared at him for a long moment, then slowly shook her head. "You have the wrong person, Lieutenant. My husband is at work, in his laboratory."
 
 This was going to be even more difficult than he had anticipated. "Mrs. Stevens, did your husband come home last night?"
 
 "No, but Richard frequently works all night. He's a scientist." She was becoming more and more agitated.
 
 "Mrs. Stevens, were you aware that your husband was involved with the Mafia?"
 
 Diane blanched. "The Mafia? Are you insane?"
 
 "We found—"
 
 Diane was beginning to hyperventilate. "Let me see your identification."
 
 "Certainly." Detective Greenburg pulled out his ID card and showed it to her.
 
 Diane glanced at it, handed it back, and then slapped Greenburg hard across his face. "Does the city pay you to go around trying to scare honest citizens? My husband is not dead! He's at work." She was shouting.
 
 Greenburg looked into her eyes and saw the shock and denial there. "Mrs. Stevens, would you like me to send someone over to look after you and—?"
"You're the one who needs someone to look after you. Now get out of here."
 
 "Mrs. Stevens—"
 
 "Now!"
 
 Greenburg took out a business card and put it on a table. "In case you need to talk to me, here's my number."
 
 As he walked out the door, Greenburg thought, Well, I handled that brilliantly. I might as well have said, "Are you the widow Stevens?"
 

 
WHEN DETECTIVE EARL Greenburg left, Diane locked the front door and took a deep, shivering breath. The idiot! Coming to the wrong apartment and trying to scare me. I should report him. She looked at her watch. Richard will be coming home soon. It's time to start getting dinner ready. She was making paella, his favorite dish. She went into the kitchen and started to prepare it.
 


BECAUSE OF THE secrecy of Richard's work, Diane never disturbed him at the laboratory, and if he did not call her, she knew it was a signal that he was going to be late. At eight o'clock, the paella was ready. She tasted it and smiled, satisfied. It was made just the way Richard liked it. At ten o'clock, when he still had not arrived, Diane put the paella in the refrigerator and stuck a Post-it note on the refrigerator door: Darling, supper is in the fridge. Come and wake me up. Richard would be hungry when he came home. Diane felt suddenly drained. She undressed, put on a nightgown, brushed her teeth, and got into bed. In a few minutes, she fell sound asleep.
 
 
AT THREE O'CLOCK in the morning, she woke up screaming.

 
 
IT WAS DAWN before Diane could stop trembling. The chill she felt was bone deep. Richard was dead. She would never see him again, hear his voice, feel him hold her close. And it's my fault. I should never have gone into that courtroom. Oh, Richard, forgive me. . . please forgive me ... I don't think I can go on without you. You were my life, my reason to live, and now I have none.
 
She wanted to curl up into a tiny ball. She wanted to disappear. She wanted to die.
 
She lay there, desolate, thinking about the past, how Richard had transformed her life. . . .
 
 
DIANE WEST HAD grown up in Sands Point, New York, an area of quiet affluence. Her father  was a surgeon and her mother was an artist, and Diane had begun to draw when she was three. She attended St. Paul's boarding school, and when she was a freshman in college, she had a brief relationship with her charismatic mathematics teacher. He told her he wanted to marry her because she was the only woman in the world for him. When Diane learned that he had a wife and three children, she decided that either his math or his memory was defective, and transferred to Wellesley College.

She was obsessed with art and spent every spare moment painting. By the time Diane graduated, she had begun selling her paintings and was acquiring a reputation as an artist of promise.
 
That fall, a prominent Fifth Avenue art gallery gave Diane her own art show, and it was a huge success. The owner of the gallery, Paul Deacon, was a wealthy, erudite African American who had helped nurture Diane's career.
 
Opening night, the salon was crowded. Deacon hurried up to Diane, a big smile on his face. "Congratulations! We've already sold most of the paintings! I'm going to set up another exhibition in a few months, as soon as you're ready."
 
Diane was thrilled. "That's wonderful, Paul."
 
"You deserve it." He patted her on the shoulder and bustled off.
 
Diane was signing an autograph when a man came up behind her and said, "I like your curves."
 
Diane stiffened. Furious, she spun around and opened her mouth to make a sharp retort, when he went on: "They have the delicacy of a Rossetti or a Manet." He was studying one of her paintings on the wall.

Diane caught herself just in time. "Oh." She took a closer look at the man. He appeared to be in his mid-thirties. He was about six feet tall, with an athletic build, blond hair, and bright blue eyes. He was dressed in a soft tan suit, a white shirt, and a brown tie.
 
"I—thank you."
 
"When did you begin painting?"
 
"When I was a child my mother was a painter."
 
He smiled. "My mother was a cook, but I can't cook. I know your name. I'm Richard Stevens."
 
At that moment, Paul Deacon approached with three packages.
 
"Here are your paintings, Mr. Stevens. Enjoy them." He handed them to Richard Stevens and walked away.
 
Diane looked at him in surprise. "You bought three of my paintings?"
 
"I have two more in my apartment."
 
"I'm—I'm flattered."

"I appreciate talent."
 
"Thank you."
 
He hesitated. "Well, you're probably busy, so I'll run—" Diane heard herself saying, "No. I'm fine." His smile widened. "Good. You could do me a big favor, Miss West."
 
Diane looked at his left hand. He was not wearing a wedding band. "Yes?"
 
"I happen to have two tickets for the opening of a revival of Noel Coward's Blithe Spirit tomorrow night, and I have no one to go with. If you're free—? Diane studied him a moment. He seemed nice and was very attractive, but, after all, he was a total stranger. Too dangerous. Much too dangerous. And she heard herself say, "I would love to go."
 

THE FOLLOWING EVENING turned out to be delightful. Richard Stevens was an amusing companion, and there was an instant compatibility. They shared an interest in art and music, and much more, She felt attracted to him, but she was not sure whether he felt the same way about her.
 
At the end of the evening, Richard asked, "Are you free tomorrow night?"
 
Diane's answer was an unhesitating "Yes."
 
The following evening they were having dinner at a quiet restaurant in SoHo.
 
"Tell me about you, Richard."
 
"Not much to tell. I was born in Chicago. My father was an architect and designed buildings all over the world, and my mother and I traveled with him. I went to about a dozen different foreign schools and learned to speak a few languages in self-defense."
 
"What do you do? For a living?
 
"I work at KIG—Kingsley International Group. It's a large think tank."
 
"That sounds exciting."
 
"It's fascinating. We do cutting-edge technology research. If we had a motto, it would be something like 'If we don't have the answer now, wait until tomorrow.
 

AFTER DINNER, RICHARD took Diane home. At her door, he took her hand and said, "I enjoyed the evening. Thank you." And he was gone. Diane stood there, watching him walk away. I'm glad he's a gentleman and not a wolf. I'm really glad. Damn!
 
 
THEY WERE TOGETHER every night after that, and each time
Diane saw Richard, she felt the same warm glow. On a Friday evening, Richard said, "I coach a Little League team on Saturdays. Would you like to come along and watch?"
 
Diane nodded. "I'd love to, Coach."
 
The following morning, Diane watched Richard working with the eager young ballplayers. He was gentle and caring and patient, screaming with joy when ten-year-old Tim Holm caught a fly ball, and it was obvious that they adored him.
 
Diane thought, I'm falling in love. I'm falling in love.
 
A FEW DAYS later, Diane had a carefree luncheon with a few women friends, and as they left the restaurant, they passed a gypsy fortune-telling parlor. On an impulse Diane said, "Let's have our fortunes told."
 
"I can't, Diane. I have to get back to work."

"So do I."
 
"I have to pick up Johnny."
 
"Why don't you go, tell us what she said."
 
"All right. I will."
 
Five minutes later, Diane found herself sitting alone with a sunken-faced crone with a mouth full of gold teeth and a dirty shawl over her head.
 
This is nonsense, Diane thought. Why am I doing this? But she knew why she was doing it. She wanted to ask if she and Richard had a future together. It's just for the fun of it, she told herself.
 
Diane watched as the old woman picked up a tarot deck and began to shuffle the cards, never looking up.
 
"I would like to know if—"
 
"Shhh." The woman turned up a card. It was the picture of the Fool, colorfully dressed and carrying a satchel. The woman studied it a moment. "There are many secrets for you to learn." She turned up another tarot card. "This is the Moon. You have desires you are uncertain about."


Diane hesitated and nodded.
 
"Does this involve a man?"
 
"Yes."
 
The old woman turned up the next card. "This is the Lovers card."
 
Diane smiled. "Is that a good omen?"
 
"We will see. The next three cards will tell us." She turned over another card. "The Hanged Man." She frowned, paused, and turned up the next card. "The Devil," she muttered.
 
"Is that bad?" Diane asked lightly.
 
The gypsy fortune-teller did not answer.
 
Diane watched as the old woman turned up the next card. She shook her head. Her voice was eerily hollow. "The Death card."
 
Diane got to her feet. "I don't believe in any of this," she said angrily.

The old woman looked up, and when she spoke, her voice was macabre. "It does not matter what you believe. Death is all around you.

 
 
Berlin, Germany
 
THE POLIZEIKOMMANDANT, OTTO Schiffer, two uniformed police officers, and the superintendent of the apartment building, Herr Karl Goetz, were staring at the naked, shriveled body lying at the bottom of the overflowing bathtub. A faint bruise circled her neck.
 
The Polizeikommandant held a finger under the dripping tap. Cold." He sniffed at the empty liquor bottle on the side of the tub and turned to the building superintendent. "Her name?"
 
"Sonja Verbrugge. Her husband is Franz Verbrugge. He is some kind of scientist."
 
"She lived in this apartment with her husband?"
 
"Seven years. They were wonderful tenants. Always paid their rent on time. Never any trouble. Everyone loved . . ." He realized what he was about to say and stopped. "Did Frau Verbrugge havea job?"
 
"Yes, at the Cyberlin internet cafe, where people pay to use the computers for—"


"What led you to discover the body?"
 
"It was because of the cold water tap in the bathtub. I tried to fix it several times, but it would never turn completely off."
 
"So?"
 
"So this morning the tenant in the apartment below complained about water dripping through his ceiling. I came up here, knocked on the door, and when there was no answer, I opened it with my passkey. I came into the bathroom and found . . ." His voice choked.
 
A detective came into the bathroom. "No liquor bottles in the cabinets, just wine."
 
The Kommandant nodded. "Right." He pointed to the liquor bottle on the side of the tub. "Have that tested for fingerprints."
 
"Yes, sir."
 
The Kommandant turned to Karl Goetz. "Do you know where Herr Verbrugge is?"
 
"No. I always see him in the morning, when he leaves for work, but—" He made a helpless gesture.

"You did not see him this morning?"
 
"No."
 
"Do you know if Herr Verbrugge was planning to take a trip somewhere?"
 
"No, sir. I do not."
 
The Kommandant turned to the detective. "Talk to the other tenants. Find out if Frau Verbrugge seemed depressed lately, or if she and her husband quarreled, and if she was a heavy drinker. Get all the information you can." He looked at Karl Goetz. "We will check on her husband. If you think of anything that might be helpful—"
 
Karl Goetz said tentatively, "I do not know whether this is helpful, but one of the tenants told me that an ambulance was parked in front of the building last night, and he asked if anyone was sick. By the time I went outside to see what was happening, the ambulance was gone. Does that help?"
 
The Kommandant said, "It will be looked into."
 
"What—what about her—her body?" Karl Goetz asked nervously.
 
"The medical examiner is on his way. Empty the tub and throw a towel over her."

 
 
I'M AFRAID I have some bad news... killed last night... we found his body under a bridge. ...
 
For Diane Stevens, time had stopped. She wandered aimlessly through the large apartment filled with memories and thought: Its comfort has gone ... its warmth has gone... without Richard, it is only a collection of cold bricks. It will never come alive again.
 
Diane sank onto the couch and closed her eyes. Richard, darling the day we were married, you asked what I would like as a gift. I told you I didn't want anything. But I do now. Come back to me. It doesn't matter if I can't see you. Just hold me in your arms. I'll know you 're here. I need to feel your touch once more. I want to feel you stroking my breast… I want to imagine that I can hear your voice saying that I make the best paella in the world...I want to hear your voice asking me to stop pulling the bedcovers of you... I want to hear you telling me that you love me. She tried to stop the sudden flow of tears, but it was impossible.
 
 
FROM THE TIME Diane realized that Richard was dead, she spent the next several days locked away in their darkened apartment, refusing to answer the telephone or the door. She was like a wounded animal, hiding. She wanted to be alone with her pain. Richard, there were so many times I wanted to say "I love you," so that you would say "I love you, too." But I didn't want to sound needy. I was a fool. Now I'm needy.

Finally, when the constant ringing of the telephone and the incessant sound of the doorbell would not stop, Diane opened the door. Carolyn Ter, one of Diane's closest friends, stood there. She looked at Diane and said, "You look like hell." Her voice softened. "Everyone's been trying to reach you, honey. We've all been worried sick."
 
"I'm sorry, Carolyn, but I just can't—"
 
Carolyn took Diane in her arms. "I know. But there are a lot of friends who want to see you."
 
Diane shook her head. "No. It's im—"
 
"Diane, Richard's life is over, but yours isn't. Don't shut out the people who love you. I'll start making calls."
 
 
FRIENDS OF DIANE and Richard began telephoning and coming to the apartment, and Diane found herself listening to the endless litany of the clinches of death: "Think of it this way, Diane. Richard is at peace. . . ."
 
"God called him, darling. . . ."
 

"I know Richard is in heaven, shining down on you..."

"He's passed over to a better place. . . ."
 
"He's joined the angels. . . ." Diane wanted to scream.
 
 
THE STREAM OF visitors seemed endless. Paul Deacon, the owner of the art gallery that displayed Diane's work, came to the apartment. He put his arms around Diane and said, "I've been trying to reach you, but—"
 
"I know."
 
"I'm so sad about Richard. He was a rare gentleman. But, Diane, you can't shut yourself away like this. People are waiting to see more of your beautiful work."
 
"I can't. It's not important anymore, Paul. Nothing is. I'm through."
 
She could not be persuaded.
 

THE FOLLOWING DAY, when the doorbell rang, Diane reluctantly went to the door. She looked through the peephole, and there seemed to be a small crowd outside. Puzzled, Diane opened the door. There were a dozen young boys in the hallway.
 
One of them was holding a little bouquet of flowers. "Good morning, Mrs. Stevens." He handed the bouquet to Diane.
 
"Thank you." She suddenly remembered who they were. They were members of the Little League team that Richard had coached.
 
Diane had received countless baskets of flowers, cards of condolence, and e-mails, but this was the most touching gift of all.
 
"Come in," Diane said.
 
The boys trooped into the room. "We just wanted to tell you how bad we feel."
 
"Your husband was a great guy."
 
"He was really cool."
 
"And he was an awesome coach." It was all Diane could do to hold back her tears. "Thank you. He thought you were great, too. He was very proud of all of you." She took a deep breath. "Would you like some soft drinks or—?"
 
Tim Holm, the ten-year-old who had caught the fly ball, spoke up. "No, thanks, Mrs. Stevens. We just wanted to tell you that we'll miss him, too. We all chipped in for the flowers. They cost twelve dollars."
 
"Anyway, we just wanted you to know how sorry we are."
 
Diane looked at them and said quietly, "Thank you, boys. I know how much Richard would appreciate your coming here." She watched as they mumbled their good-byes and left. As Diane observed their departure, she remembered the first time she had watched Richard coach the boys. He had talked to them as though he were their age, in language they understood, and they loved him for it. That was the day I started to fall in love with him.
 
Outside, Diane could hear the rumble of thunder and the first drops of rain beginning to roll down against the windows, like God's tears. Rain. It had been on a holiday weekend . . .
 
 
"DO YOU LIKE picnics?" Richard asked.
 
"I adore them."
 
He smiled. "I knew it. I'll plan a little picnic for us. I'll pick you up tomorrow at noon."
 
It was a beautiful, sunny day. Richard had arranged for a picnic in the middle of Central Park. There was silverware and linens, and when Diane saw what was in the picnic basket, she laughed. Roast beef... a ham . . . cheeses . . . two large pates... an assortment of drinks and half a dozen desserts.
 
"There's enough for a small army! Who's going to join us?" And an unbidden thought popped into her mind. A minister? She blushed.
 
Richard was watching her. "Are you all right?" All right? I've never been so happy. "Yes, Richard." He nodded. "Good. We won't wait for the army. Let's start."
 
While they ate, there was so much to talk about, and every word seemed to bring them closer. There was a strong sexual tension building up between them, and they could both feel it. And in the middle of this perfect afternoon, it began to rain. In a matter of minutes, they were soaked.
 
Richard said ruefully, "I'm sorry about this. I should have known better—the paper said no rain. I'm afraid it's spoiled our picnic and—" Diane moved close to him and said softly, "Has it?"
 
And she was in his arms and her lips were pressed against his, and she could feel the heat racing through her body. When she finally pulled back, she said, "We have to get out of these wet clothes."
 
He laughed. "You're right. We don't want to catch—" Diane said, "Your place or mine?" And Richard suddenly became very still. "Diane, are you sure? I'm asking because . . . this isn't just a one-night stand."
 
Diane said quietly, "I know."
 
 
HALF AN HOUR later they were in Diane's apartment, undressing, and their arms were around each other, and their hands were exploring tantalizing places, and finally, when they could stand it no longer, they got into bed.
 
Richard was gentle and tender and passionate and frenzied, and it was magic, and his tongue found her and moved slowly, and it felt as though warm waves were gently lapping at a velvet beach, and then he was deep inside her, filling her.
 
They spent the rest of the afternoon, and most of the night, talking and making love, and they opened their hearts to each other, and it was wonderful beyond words. In the morning, while Diane was making their breakfast, Richard asked, "Will you marry me, Diane?"
 
And she turned to him and said softly, "Oh, yes."
 
 
THE WEDDING TOOK place one month later. The ceremony was warm and wonderful, with friends and family congratulating the newlyweds. Diane looked over at Richard's beaming face and thought of the fortune-teller's ridiculous prediction, and smiled.
 
They had planned to leave for a honeymoon in France the week after the wedding, but Richard had called her from work. "A new project has just come up and I can't get away. Is it all right if we do it in a few months? Sorry, baby."
 
She said, "Of course it's all right, darling."
 
"Do you want to come out and have lunch with me today?"
 
"I'd love that."
 
"You like French food. I know a great French restaurant. I'll pick you up in half an hour."
Thirty minutes later, Richard was outside, waiting for Diane. "Hi, honey. I have to see one of our clients off at the airport. He's leaving for Europe. We'll say good-bye and then go on to lunch."
 
She hugged him. "Fine."
 
When they arrived at Kennedy airport, Richard said, "He has a private plane. We'll meet him on the tarmac."
 
A guard passed them through to a restricted area, where a Challenger was parked. Richard looked around. "He's not here yet. Let's wait in the plane."
 
"All right."
 
They walked up the steps and entered the luxurious aircraft. The engines were running.
 
The flight attendant walked in from the cockpit. "Good morning."
 
"Good morning," Richard said. Diane smiled. "Good morning." They watched the flight attendant close the cabin door.
 
Diane looked at Richard. "How late do you think your client is going to be?"
 
"He shouldn't be very long."
 
The roar of the jets started getting louder. The plane began to taxi.
 
Diane looked out the window, and her face paled. "Richard, we're moving."
 
Richard looked at Diane in surprise. "Are you sure?"
 
"Look out the window." She was panicking. "Tell—tell the pilot—"
 
"What do you want me to tell him?" To stop!
 
"I can't. He's already started."
 
There was a moment of silence and Diane looked at Richard, her eyes wide. "Where are we going?"
 
"Oh, didn't I tell you? We're going to Paris. You said you liked French food."
 
She gasped. Then her expression changed. "Richard, I can't go to Paris now! I have no clothes.I have no makeup. I have no—"

Richard said, "I heard they have stores in Paris."
 
She looked at him a moment, then flung her arms around him. "Oh, you fool, you. I love you."
 
He grinned. "You wanted a honeymoon. You've got it."

 
 
AT ORLY, A limousine was waiting to take them to the Hotel Plaza Athenee.
 
When they arrived, the manager said, "Your suite is ready for you, Mr. and Mrs. Stevens."
 
"Thank you."
 
They were booked into suite 310. The manager opened the door, and Diane and Richard walked inside. Diane stopped in shock. Half a dozen of her paintings were hanging on the walls. She turned to look at Richard. "I—how did that—?"
 
Richard said innocently, "I have no idea. I guess they have good taste here, too."
 
Diane gave him a long, passionate kiss.
 
 
PARIS WAS A wonderland. Their first stop was at Givenchy, to buy outfits for both of them, then over to Louis Vuitton, to get luggage for all their new clothes.
 
They took a leisurely walk down the Champs-Elysees to the Place de la Concorde, and saw the storied Arc de Triomphe, and the Palais-Bourbon, and la Madeleine. They strolled along la Place Vendome, and spent a day at the Musee du Louvre. They wandered through the sculpture garden of the Musee Rodin and had romantic dinners at Auberge de Trois Bonheurs, and Au Petit Chez Soi, and D'Chez Eux.
 


The ONLY THING that seemed odd to Diane was the telephone calls Richard received at peculiar hours.
 
"Who was that?" Diane asked once, at 3 a.m., as Richard finished a phone conversation.
 
"Just routine business."
 
In the middle of the night?

 
"Diane! diane!"
 
She was shaken out of her reverie. Carolyn Ter was standing over her. "Are you all right?"
 
"I'm—I'm fine."
 
Carolyn put her arms around Diane. "You just need time. It's only been a few days." She hesitated.
 
"By the way, have you made arrangements for the funeral?"
 
Funeral. The saddest word in the English language. It carried the sound of death, an echo of despair.
 
"I—I haven't—been able to—"
 
"Let me help you with it. I'll pick out a casket and—"
 
"No!" The word came out harsher than Diane had intended. Carolyn was looking at her, puzzled. When Diane spoke again, her voice was shaky. "Don't you see? This is—this is the last thing I can ever do for Richard. I want to make his funeral special. He'll want all his friends there, to say goodbye." Tears were running down her cheeks.
 
"Diane—"
 
"I have to pick out Richard's casket to make sure he—he sleeps comfortably."
 
There was nothing more Carolyn could say.
 
 
THAT AFTERNOON, DETECTIVE Earl Greenburg was in his office when the call came.
 
"Diane Stevens is on the phone for you."
 
Oh, no. Greenburg remembered the slap in the face the last time he had seen her. What now? She probably has some new beef. He picked up the phone. "Detective Greenburg."
 
"This is Diane Stevens. I'm calling for two reasons. The first is to apologize. I behaved very badly, and I'm truly sorry."
 
He was taken aback. "You don't have to apologize, Mrs. Stevens. I understood what you were going through."
 
He waited. There was a silence.
 
"You said you had two reasons for calling."
 
"Yes. My husband's—" Her voice broke. "My husband's body is being held somewhere by the police. How do I get Richard back? I'm arranging for his—his funeral at the Dalton Mortuary."
 
The despair in her voice made him wince. "Mrs. Stevens, I'm afraid that some red tape is involved. First, the coroner's office has to file a report on the autopsy and then it's necessary to notify the various—" He was thoughtful for a moment, then made his decision. Look—you have enough on your mind. I'll make the arrangements for you. Everything will be set within two days."
 
"Oh. I—I thank you. Thank you very—" Her voice choked up and the connection was broken.
 
Earl Greenburg sat there a long time, thinking about Diane Stevens and the anguish she was going through. Then he went to work cutting red tape.
 
 
THE DALTON MORTUARY was located on the east side of
Madison Avenue. It was an impressive two-story building with the facade of a southern mansion. Inside, the decor was tasteful and understated, with soft lighting and whispers of pale curtains and drapes.
 
Diane said to the receptionist, "I have an appointment with Mr. Jones. Diane Stevens."
 
"Thank you."
 
The receptionist spoke into a phone, and moments later the manager, a gray-haired, pleasant-faced man, came out to greet Diane.
 
"I'm Ron Jones. We spoke on the phone. I know how difficult everything is at a time like this, Mrs. Stevens, and our job is to take the burden off you. Just tell me what you want and we will see that your wishes are carried out." Diane said uncertainly, "I—I'm not even sure what to ask." Jones nodded. "Let me explain. Our services include a casket, a memorial service for your friends, a cemetery plot, and the burial." He hesitated. "From what I read of your husband's death in the newspapers, Mrs. Stevens, you'll probably want a closed casket for the memorial service, so—"
 
"No!"
 
Jones looked at her in surprise. "But—"
 
"I want it open. I want Richard to—to be able to see all his friends, before he . . ." Her voice trailed off.
 
Jones was studying her sympathetically. "I see. Then if I may make a suggestion, we have a cosmetician who does excellent work where"—he said tactfully—"it's needed. Will that be all right?"
 
Richard would hate it, but—"Yes."
 
"There's just one thing more. We'll need the clothes you want your husband to be buried in."
 
She looked at him in shock. "The—" Diane could feel the cold hands of a stranger violating Richard's naked body, and she shivered.
 
"Mrs. Stevens?"
 
I should dress Richard myself. But I couldn 't bear to see him the way he is. I want to remember—
 
"Mrs. Stevens?"
 
Diane swallowed. "I hadn't thought about—" Her voice was strangled. "I'm sorry." She was unable to go on.
 
He watched her stumble outside and hails a taxi.
 
 
WHEN DIANE RETURNED to her apartment, she walked into Richard's closet. There were two racks filled with his suits. Each outfit held a treasured memory. There was the tan suit Richard had been wearing the night they met at the art gallery. I like your curves. They have the delicacy of a Rossetti or a Manet. Could she let go of that suit? No.
 
Her fingers touched the next one. It was the light gray sport jacket Richard had worn to the picnic, when they had been caught in the rain. Your place or mine? This isn't just a one-night stand.
 
I know.
 
How could she not keep it?
 
The pinstriped suit was next. You like French food. I know a great French restaurant. . . .
 
The navy blazer . . . the suede jacket. . . Diane wrapped the arms of a blue suit around herself and hugged it. I could never let any of these go. Each of them was a cherished remembrance. "I can't." Sobbing, she grabbed a suit at random and fled.
 
The following afternoon, there was a message on Diane's voice mail: "Mrs. Stevens, this is Detective Greenburg. I wanted to let you know that everything here has been cleared. I've talked to the Dalton Mortuary. You're free to go ahead with whatever plans you want to make..." There was a slight pause. "I wish you well... Good-bye."
 
Diane called Ron Jones at the mortuary. "I understand that my husband's body has arrived there."
 
"Yes, Mrs. Stevens. I already have someone taking care of the cosmetics, and we've received the clothes you sent. Thank you."
 
"I thought—would this coming Friday be all right for the funeral?"
 
"Friday will be fine. By then we will have taken care of all the necessary details. I would suggest eleven a.m."
 
In three days, Richard and I will be parted forever. Or until I join him.
 
 
THURSDAY MORNING, DIANE was busily preparing the final details of the funeral, verifying the long list of invitees and the pallbearers, when the telephone call came.
 
"Mrs. Stevens?"
 
"Yes."
 
"This is Ron Jones. I just wanted to let you know that I received your paperwork and the change was made, just as you requested."
 
Diane was puzzled. "Paperwork—?"
 
"Yes. The courier brought it yesterday, with your letter."
 
"I didn't send any—"
 
"Frankly, I was a little surprised, but, of course, it was your decision."
 
"My decision—?"
 
"We cremated your husband's body one hour ago."
 

 
 
 
KELLY HARRIS WAS a roman candle that had exploded into the world of fashion. She was in her late twenties, an African-American with skin the color of melted honey and a face that was a photographer's dream. She had intelligent soft brown eyes, sensual full lips, lovely long legs, and a figure filled with erotic promise. Her dark hair was cut short in deliberate dishabille, with a few strands sprawling across her forehead. Earlier that year, the readers of Elle and Mademoiselle magazines had voted Kelly the Most Beautiful Model in the World.
 
As she finished dressing, Kelly looked around the penthouse, feeling, as always, a sense of wonder. The apartment was spectacular. It was on the exclusive Rue St.-Louis-en-Elle, in the Fourth Arrondissenient of Paris. The apartment had a double-door entry that opened into an elegant hall with high ceilings and soft yellow wall panels, and the living room was furnished with an eclectic mixture of French and Regency furniture. From the terrace, across the Seine, was a view of Notre-Dame.
 
Kelly was looking forward to the coming weekend. Mark was going to take her out for one of his surprise treats.
 
I want you to get all dressed up, honey. You 're going to love where we're going.
 
Kelly smiled to herself. Her husband was the most wonderful man in the world. Kelly glanced at her wristwatch and sighed. I had better get moving, she thought. The show starts in half an hour. A few moments later, she left the apartment, heading down the hallway toward the elevator. As she did so, the door of a neighboring apartment opened and Madame Josette Lapointe came out into the corridor. A small butterball of a woman, she always had a friendly word for Kelly.
 
"Good afternoon, Madame Harris."
 
Kelly smiled. "Good afternoon, Madame Lapointe."
 
"You're looking beautiful, as always."
 
"Thank you." Kelly pressed the button for the elevator.
 
A dozen feet away, a burly man in work clothes was adjusting a wall fixture. He glanced at the two women then quickly turned his head.
 
"How is the modeling going?" Madame Lapointe asked.
 
"Very well, thank you."
 
"I must come and see you in one of your fashion shows soon."
 
"I'll be happy to arrange it anytime."
 
The elevator arrived, and Kelly and Madame Lapointe stepped inside. The man in work clothes pulled out a small walkie-talkie, spoke hurriedly into it, and rapidly walked away.
 
As the elevator door started to close, Kelly heard the telephone ring in her apartment. She hesitated. She was in a hurry, but it could be Mark calling.
 
"You go ahead," she said to Madame Lapointe.
 
Kelly stepped out of the elevator, fumbled for her key, found it, and ran back into her apartment. She raced to the ringing telephone and picked it up. "Mark?"
 
A strange voice said, "Nanette?'
 
Kelly was disappointed. "Nous ne connaissons pas la personne qui repond a ce nom."
 
"Pardonnez-moi. C'est une erreur de telephone."
 
A wrong number. Kelly put the phone down. As she did, there was a tremendous crash that shook the whole building. A moment later, there was a babble of voices and loud screams. Horrified, she rushed into the hall to see what had happened. The sounds were coming from below. Kelly ran down the stairs, and when she finally reached the lobby, she heard loud, excited voices coming from the basement.
 
Apprehensively, she went down the stairs to the basement and stood in shock as she saw the crushed elevator car and the horribly mangled body of Madame Lapointe in it. Kelly felt faint. That poor woman. A minute ago she was alive and now. . . And I could have been in there with her. If not for that telephone call. . .
 
A crowd had gathered around the elevator, and sirens were heard in the distance. I should stay, Kelly thought guiltily, but I can't. I have to leave. She looked at the body and whispered, "I'm so sorry, Madame Lapointe."
 
 
WHEN KELLY ARRIVED at the fashion salon and walked in the stage door, Pierre, the nervous fashion coordinator, was waiting.
 
He pounced on her. "Kelly! Kelly! You're late! The show has already started and—"
 
"I'm sorry, Pierre. There—there was a bad accident." He looked at her in alarm. "Are you hurt?"
"No." Kelly closed her eyes for a moment. The idea of going to work after what she had witnessed was nauseating, but she had no choice. She was the star of the show.
 
"Hurry!" Pierre said. "Vite!"
 
Kelly started toward her dressing room.
 
 
THE YEAR'S MOST prestigious fashion show was being held at 31 Rue Cambon, Chanel's original salon. The paparazzi were near the front rows. Every seat was occupied, and the back of the room was crowded with standees eager to get the first glimpse of the coming season's new designs. The room had been decorated for the event with flowers and draped fabrics, but no one was paying any attention to the decor. The real attractions were on the long runway—a river of moving colors, beauty, and style. In the background, music was playing, its slow, sexy beat accentuating the movements onstage.
 
As the lovely models glided back and forth, they were accompanied by a voice on a loudspeaker giving a running commentary on the fashions.
 
An Asian brunette started down the runway: "... a satin wool jacket with edge top stitching and georgette pants and a white blouse . . ."
 
A slim blonde undulated across the runway: "... is wearing a black cashmere turtleneck with white cotton cargo pants ..."
 
A redhead with an attitude appeared: "... a black leather jacket and black shantung pants with a white knit shirt. . ."
 
A French model: "... a pink, three-button angora jacket, a pink cable-knit turtleneck and black cuffed pants..."
 
A Swedish model: "... a navy satin wool jacket and pants and a lilac charmeuse blouse ..."
 
And then the moment everyone had been waiting for. The Swedish model had walked off and the runway was deserted. The voice over the loudspeaker said, "And now that the swimming season is here, we are pleased to display our new line of beachwear."
 
There was a crescendo of anticipation, then Kelly Harris appeared at the peak of it. She was wearing a white bikini, a bra that barely covered her firm, young breasts and a figure-hugging bottom. As she floated sensuously down the runway, the effect was mesmerizing. There was a wave of applause. Kelly gave a faint smile of acknowledgment, circled the runway, and disappeared. Backstage, two men were waiting for her.
 
"Mrs. Harris, if I could have a moment—?"
 
"I'm sorry," Kelly said apologetically. "I have to make a quick change." She started to walk away.
 
"Wait! Mrs. Harris! We are with the Police Judiciaire. I am Chief Inspector Dune and this is Inspector Steunou. We need to talk."
 
Kelly stopped. "The police? Talk about what?"
 
"You are Mrs. Mark Harris, yes?"
 
"Yes." She was filled with sudden apprehension.
 
"Then I am sorry to inform you that—that your husband died last night."
 
Kelly's mouth was dry. "My husband—? How—?"
 
"Apparently, he committed suicide."
 
There was a roar in Kelly's ears. She could barely make out what the chief inspector was saying: "... Tour Eiffel. . . midnight. . . note . . . very regrettable. . . deepest sympathy."
 
The words were not real. They were pieces of sound with no meaning.
 
"Madame—"
 
This weekend, I want you to get all dressed up, darling. You're going to love where we're going. "There is some—some mistake," Kelly said. "Mark wouldn't—"
 
"I am sorry." The chief inspector was watching Kelly closely. "Are you all right, madame?"
 
"Yes." Except that my life has just ended.
 
Pierre bustled over to Kelly, carrying a beautiful striped bikini. "Cherie, you must change quickly. There is no time to waste." He thrust the bikini in her arms. "Vite! Vite!"
 
Kelly slowly let it drop to the floor. "Pierre?" He was looking at her in surprise. "Yes?"
"You wear it."
 
 
A LIMOUSINE BROUGHT Kelly back to her apartment. The salon manager had wanted to send someone to be with her, but Kelly had refused. She wanted to be alone. Now, as she walked in through the entrance, Kelly saw the concierge, Philippe Cendre, and a man in overalls, surrounded by a group of tenants.
 
One of the tenants said, "Poor Madame Lapointe. What a terrible accident."
 
The man in overalls held up two jagged ends of a heavy cable. "It was no accident, madame. Someone cut the elevator's safety brakes."
 

 
 
AT FOUR O'CLOCK in the morning, Kelly was seated in a chair, staring out the window in a daze, her mind racing. Police Judiciaire. . . we need to talk . . . Tour Eiffel . . suicide note. . . Mark is dead. . . Mark is dead. . . Mark is dead. The words became a dirge pulsing through Kelly's brain. She could see Mark's body tumbling down, down, down. . . . She put her arms out to catch him just before he smashed against the sidewalk. Did you die because of me? Was it something I did? Something I didn't do? Something I said? Something I didn't say? I was asleep when you left, darling, and I didn't have a chance to say good-bye, to kiss you and tell you how much I love you. I need you. I can't stand it without you, Kelly thought. Help me, Mark. Help me—the way you always helped me. . . . She slumped back, remembering how it had been before Mark, in the awful early days.
 
 
KELLY HAD BEEN born in Philadelphia, the illegitimate daughter of Ethel Hackworth, a black maid who worked for one of the town's most prominent white families. The father of the family was a judge. Ethel was seventeen and beautiful, and Pete, the handsome, blond, twenty-year-old son of the Turner family, had been attracted to her. He had seduced her, and a month later Ethel learned she was pregnant.
 
When she told Pete, he said, "That's—that's wonderful." And he rushed into his father's den to tell him the bad news.
 
Judge Turner called Ethel into his den the next morning and said, "I won't have a whore working in this house. You're fired."
 
With no money and no education or skills, Ethel had taken a job as a cleaning lady in an industrial building, working long hours to support her newborn daughter. In five years, Ethel had saved enough money to buy a run-down clapboard house that she turned into a boardinghouse for men. Ethel converted the rooms into a living room, a dining room, four small bedrooms, and a narrow little utility room that Kelly slept in.
 
From that time on, a series of men constantly arrived and left.
 
"These are your uncles," Ethel told her. "Don't bother them."
 
Kelly was pleased that she had such a large family until she became old enough to realize that they were all strangers.
 
When Kelly was eight years old, she was asleep one night in her small, darkened bedroom when she was awakened by a guttural whisper: "Shhh! Don't make a sound."
 
Kelly felt her nightgown being lifted, and before she could protest, one of her "uncles" was on top of her and his hand was over her mouth. Kelly could feel him forcibly spreading her legs. She tried to struggle, but he held her down. She felt his member tearing inside her body, and she was filled with excruciating pain. He was merciless, forcing himself inside her, going deeper and deeper, rubbing her skin raw. Kelly could feel her warm blood gushing out. She was silently screaming, afraid she would faint. She was trapped in the terrifying blackness of her room.
 
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, she felt him shudder and then withdraw.
 
He whispered, "I'm leaving. But if you ever tell your mother about this, I'll come back and kill her." And he was gone.
 
The next week was almost unbearable. She was in misery all the time, but she treated her lacerated body as best she could until finally the pain subsided. She wanted to tell her mother what had happened, but she did not dare. If you ever tell your mother about this, I'll come back and kill her.
 
The incident had lasted only a few minutes, but those few minutes altered Kelly's life. She changed from a young girl who had dreamed of having a husband and children to someone who felt that she was tarnished and disgraced. She resolved that she would never let a man touch her again. Something else had changed in Kelly.
 
From that night on, she was afraid of the dark.